Who Killed Charmian Karslake? (2 page)

Discovering who killed Charmian Karslake is a task that falls to Scotland Yard's Inspector Stoddart, who once again in his criminal investigation is assisted by his “fidus Achates” from the force, young Alfred Harbord. Stoddart is met with scorn when Silas P. Juggs, a fervently patriotic American dismissive of British gumption, arrives at Hepton Abbey, Juggs bluntly telling the inspector, “I guess you aren't quite a Sherlock Holmes yet, or you would have laid Charmian Karslake's murderer by the heels before now.” Yet Stoddart soon unearths suspicious characters not only within the mighty walls of Hepton Abbey, but on the humble streets of Hepton, “the quaintest of old-fashioned villages….nestled under the shadow of the Abbey….” It becomes apparent to Stoddart and Harbord that Charmian Karslake may not have been quite as unacquainted with the locality as she had led people at the house party to believe. Did Miss Karslake have personal connections to Hepton, or even to Hepton Abbey itself? Who was the man at Hepton Abbey whom she was heard to taunt with the query, “Well, Mr. Peter Hailsham, we meet again, do we?”

One of the interesting aspects of
Who Killed Charmian Karslake?
lies in the brief discussions that take place between Stoddart and Harbord concerning notorious real life murder cases and the convicted murderers Edith Thompson, Hawley Harvey Crippen, Jack Alfred Field and William Thomas Gray. (The latter pair were found guilty of one of the Twenties “Crumbles murders,” both of which took place on a shingle beach between Eastbourne and Pevensey Bay.) “Some of the worst criminals I have known have been the best looking,” remarks Stoddart at one point. “Look at Mrs. Thompson—face like a flower, some ass said. But it was a flower that did not stick at murder when an unfortunate husband stood in the way.” Annie Haynes' companion, Ada Heather-Bigg, recalled after the author's death that Haynes had been intensely interested in “crime and criminal psychology” and that this interest “led her into the most varied activities,” including attending Dr. Crippen's 1910 murder trial and even boldly “pushing her way into the cellar of 39 Hilldrop Crescent, where the remains of Belle Elmore [Crippen's wife] were discovered….” A transatlantic ocean voyage made by several of the characters in
Who Killed Charmian Karslake?
may recall, in a minor degree, the Crippen case to readers' minds.

Despite references to grim real life murders,
Who Killed Charmian Karslake?
mostly remains within the cozy confines of the country house and village world associated so strongly with the Golden Age British detective novel, a world that Haynes herself had once known well. “[T]o the true Heptonian the Penn-Moretons represented the ruling class, all that they knew of rank, or wealth, or culture,” observes the author, who grew up in a gardener's cottage on the grounds of a Midlands great house, Leiscestershire's Coleorton Hall, over which the Beaumont baronets had presided in splendor for over three centuries. Yet Haynes allows a few disgruntled characters, having long since departed Hepton (like she herself had long ago left Coleorton village for London), to voice discordant sentiments. 

“Many's the errand I've done for 'em and had a copper chucked to me like as I was a dog,” grumbles an émigré Heptonian of the Penn-Moretons, while another former resident of Hepton grows eloquent as she grouses to Stoddart about the lords of the Midlands village:

Did Charmian Karslake's unnatural death at Hepton Abbey have it roots in old Hepton enmities that were hoped to have been long forgotten? Readers can rest assured that whatever the cause of the killing of Charmian Karslake, the steadfast Inspector Stoddart will find it.

Curtis Evans

“Beastly mess the place seems to be in,” grumbled Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton, looking round the room with a disgusted air.

“Well, if you will give balls you have to put up with the aftermath,” said Dicky, his younger brother, screwing his monocle in his left eye as he spoke.

Dicky was already seated at the table devouring kidneys and bacon with apparent relish.

Sir Arthur glanced at him as he sat down opposite. “You don't look up to much this morning, Dicky!”

“How can a chap look up to much when he has sat up to the small hours of the night before, dancing round with a lot of screaming young women, and eating all sorts of indigestible food?” Dicky questioned, taking another helping of kidney. “You don't look any great shakes yourself for that matter. We are neither of us in our first youth, Arthur, you must remember. Years will tell, you know.”

“Don't be a fool, Dicky!” Sir Arthur said sharply. “Your wife was a great success. She roused us all up.”

Dicky looked pleased. “Good-looking kid, isn't she? And lively – she has got the goods, you bet.”

“Who are you two gassing about?” a third man inquired, lounging into the room. “Charmian Karslake, I dare swear. She made your country bumpkins look up, Moreton, I thought. Even the parson said he found her extraordinarily interesting. And if she put it over him, by Jove, it is one up to her.”

“Pooh! Old Bowles doesn't count,” Sir Arthur said, brushing the very notion away with a wave of his hand. “And you don't remember much of Hepton, or I should say Meadshire society, Larpent, or you would realize that no actress, however wonderful, would excite the people overmuch. Mummers they call them, and look upon them as creatures of a different calibre to themselves.”

“And so they are!” exclaimed Mr. Larpent, sitting down and pulling a dish of mushrooms towards him. “Charmian Karslake, if you mean her! She is all alive from the crown of her lovely head to the toes of her pretty little feet. Now, last night your Meadshire beauties were about as cheerful as so many cows or sheep. Different calibre to Charmian Karslake, by Jove, I should think they are!”

While Mr. Larpent delivered himself of this exordium the room was gradually filling with other members of the house-party at Hepton Abbey, all looking more or less jaded. The one exception was Dicky Penn-Moreton's young American wife. Mrs. Richard looked as bright as though dancing until three o'clock in the morning was an everyday experience with her, as indeed it was. Following her came Lady Penn-Moreton, the mistress of the house, as cheerful as ever, though rather tired-looking.

Hepton Abbey was something of a show place, one of the wealthiest religious houses in the kingdom at the time of the Dissolution, and it and the fat revenues appertaining to it had been bestowed by King Henry upon his reigning favourite, the head of the Penn-Moreton family. Probably Penn-Moreton had saved his head and his fortune by retiring immediately to his new estate and devoting himself to its improvement and development, and though he entertained King Henry regally at Hepton he was little seen at Court for the rest of his life. And since that time down to the present day, though the younger sons of the Penn-Moretons had gone into the Army or the Navy, or sometimes, though more rarely, into the Church, the heads of the family had always occupied themselves in the development of their lands.

The Abbey itself had been restored as little as possible, tradition said that the rooms in the bachelors' wing had been the old monks' cells. But in the other parts of the house two or three had been put together, and beyond the small diamond-paned windows showed little trace of their origin. The hall and the big diningroom had been made out of the old chapel. Visitors to the Abbey could see the remains of the high altar opposite the door by which they were admitted. Only bathrooms and the big conservatory – which from the outside looked like unsightly excrescences – had been added since the Penn-Moretons' ownership.

The present head of the family was Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton, who had married, a couple of years before, the pretty, lively daughter of a penniless Irish peer. Their little son was now a year old. The previous Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton had been married twice, and had one son by each marriage. The present Sir Arthurs mother had died soon after her son's birth, and the widower had replaced her within the year, so that there was no great difference in age between the two boys.

Dicky Penn-Moreton was a general favourite in society, but his portion as a younger son had been small, and Dicky was not fond of work. Just eighteen, he had joined the Army in the first months of the Great War, and he and his brother had passed through it unscathed. After the Armistice he had spent some time with the Army of Occupation; later he had announced that he loathed soldiering in peace time, that he found it impossible to live on his pay, supplemented, as it was, by his own small income and his brother's liberal allowance, and had resigned his commission. Since then he had been unable to find a job to his liking, and had remained at Hepton looking round the estate and, as he put it, learning his business from the agent. A couple of months before he had astonished society by marrying the vivacious daughter of Silas P. Juggs, the Chicago multi-millionaire.

Sir Arthur and Lady Penn-Moreton had given a ball the night before this story opens to welcome the young couple on their return to England after their honeymoon.

The marriage had been so hurriedly arranged that there had been literally no time to get a house, and the Richard Penn-Moretons were at present living in one of London's palatial hotels, seeing life and, incidentally, making long motor journeys to look at desirable residences to let.

Mrs. Richard had made a great impression at the ball. Her wonderful Parisian frock, the vivacity for which her countrywomen are famous, and a certain
joie de vivre
, peculiarly her own, had fascinated the somewhat humdrum society near Hepton.

Another attraction from over the water had been present in the person of the great American actress, who had taken all London by storm – Charmian Karslake.

Lady Moreton had regarded the acceptance of her invitation as a compliment, as the ball at Hepton Abbey was the only festivity at which the actress had been present since her coming to England. .

Her loveliness was undeniable; tall and slim, with an exquisite complexion that owed nothing to art, with a mass of auburn hair that alone would have made her remarkable in these days of shingling. Her small
mignon
face, with its beautifully formed features, was lighted up by a pair of eyes so deeply blue that they seemed almost to match the big sapphire ball that she always wore suspended by a long platinum chain. Her mascot, Miss Karslake called it, and it was always so described in every interview or account of her that appeared in any paper. At the ball she had worn a wonderful gown woven of gold tissue. Like a flame she had flashed to and fro among the sober Meadshire folk.

Dicky Moreton's eyes kept wandering to the door, in spite of his pretty wife's presence. So did those of most of the men in the room. But the minutes passed and no Charmian Karslake appeared.

Sir Arthur began to talk about the shooting; the fresh comers finished their breakfast and retired with the morning papers to the window.

At last the butler came into the room. He looked uncomfortably at Sir Arthur.

“Could I speak to you for a minute, if you please, Sir Arthur?”

With a murmured word of apology Sir Arthur went out of the room.

“Old Brook looks as if he had had a spot of something last night,” commented Dicky. “Whitish about the gills, reddish about the eyes, don't you know!”

“Dicky, I'm really ashamed of you,” Mrs. Richard flashed round upon him. “Brook is the cutest creature alive. He might have stepped from the pages of Dickens or Thackeray, or Anthony Trollope. Family retainer, you know. And you –”

Words apparently failed Mrs. Richard. She made an expressive face at her husband just as Sir Arthur re-entered, looking distinctly worried.

He turned to his brother. “One of the upper doors has stuck, Dicky. You and Larpent will have to give me a hand. This old wood is the very deuce to move when once it catches.”

“All serene. I'll come along,” said Dicky, abandoning his kidneys and beckoning to Mr. Larpent, who resigned his mushrooms with a sigh.

Once outside the room Sir Arthur's manner changed. “I'm afraid that there is something wrong, Miss Karslake's maid has not been able to get in this morning. At first she thought, when there was no response to her knock, that Miss Karslake was just sleeping off the effects of last night's late hours. But at last she grew alarmed and appealed to Brook. He came to me, as you saw, and we have both been up. But though we have made noise enough to wake the dead we can't rouse her. I can't think what is the matter.”

Dicky gave his brother a resounding slap on the back. “Cheerio, I expect she is all right. You can't expect her to keep the same hours as the rest of the world.” But Dicky's own face was white as he followed his brother up the stairs and along the corridor to the door outside which a maid was standing – a typical-looking Frenchwoman with her dark hair and eyes, her black frock and coquettish little apron. She was dabbing her eyes with a dainty handkerchief as the men came up to her.